


A Time to Laugh

by BattyRayne



Category: Tattered Weave (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BattyRayne/pseuds/BattyRayne
Summary: Taking place very shortly after the Rewrite, The Scribe has just taken the control of the Shadow Stage with the help of the people of Hope and her fellow major players. The lesser Roles are still not certain that this new boss will be any better than the old one, and as such are not eager to take up her new scripts. One day, however, an elderly Thespian woman shows up at her door with a bold request...
Kudos: 4





	A Time to Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written several years ago and as such it is somewhat outdated as far as lore is concerned. The more egregious errors have been edited out, but the fic is largely the same as it was when I wrote it for NaNo in 2017. Some themes (those of death and death acceptance) may be uncomfortable to some readers, so be aware of that going in. Otherwise, there are actually still some bits I like in this work so I chose to share it, hopefully you enjoy it as well!

She sat down at his desk in his castle, working on his manuscripts...No. 

She sat down at _her_ desk in _her_ home, making her own stories. No more editing the manic scripts into usable narratives, no more **_booming voice in her head,_** and no more sad endings, at least not for a while. She had ideas, hundreds of them, and they poured out onto the pages as fast as her wrist could move. 

_She_ was the creator now, though she wasn’t yet certain just how much she could do. The Narrator had near-complete control, a knack for fitting a role to a Thespian, and a stranglehold on the whole Stage. He had all the kith of the Shadow Stage under his command but that wasn’t enough. He found another place offstage of all places, the aptly-named remnant called Hope. They had kith there too, and he wanted them. That was a mistake.

Ah, but that was history. The Narrator was gone now, fled Offstage--or into the “Tatters,” as their new friends from Hope liked to say. He’d try to come back, of course. All second-rate mustache-twirling villains did. It was a shame how predictable he’d become. 

Veilious yawned and stretched under the desk. She reached with her foot and scratched them under the blanket. They gave several appreciative purrs and curled up to nap again. They were worn out after chewing up her entire supply of sealing wax.

The Scribe picked up the page she was working on, brushing her mask with the end of her quill as she read through. 

_Scene change: The forest. It is nighttime (when isn’t it?) and we see Character A fighting their way through the brush, followed by Character B._

_Character A: Keep close to me, Character B! There’s a lot of thorns and vines here._

_Character B: Oh no, Character A, there are a lot of thorns and vines here! And now I am sinking, could this be quicksand?_

_Character A: I am also sinking! We are in quicksand, Character B! We’re going to die!_

_Characters A and B: Noooooooo!_

The Scribe narrowed her eyes then slowly and deliberately tore the page in half. As she tossed the halves aside she heard Veilious jump to attention then scramble after them, briefly getting themselves caught on her chair (and her legs) trying to go after both halves at once. Once they had decided on a direction they darted in a circle around her seat, returning to their resting place with papers to tear up, which the many masked heads did gleefully. 

Scribe readjusted her chair and stared at a fresh page. OK, so sometimes she just didn’t have it. Sometimes she needed a few false starts in order to get the gears working. This was all part of the creative process. It was hard to write without specific roles in mind, though.

She was hoping to give some more minor roles the spotlight, if she could persuade them to take it _at all._ Thespians thanked their lucky stars not to be in the main cast all the time, even though unnamed masses could be killed off far more easily and with much less fuss. They kept their heads down, praying not to be discovered. The whole business with the Hero and Damsel had completely turned off most to the idea of trying out for a better role.

Little steps, Scribe told herself. Once the others saw the safer, tamer plays, they’d warm to the bigger and more experimental stuff. The Narrator was gone, there was only the Scribe. The Stage would reclaim its former glory--no, it would outshine it with the Stagehands free and fresh blood in the creative department. She just needed someone to step forward…

When the knock came on her door, she yelled “It’s open!” without a second thought. She started scribbling madly again, letting the words flow...well, forcing them out in a flowing manner, anyway. 

“You’re here for a book or an old scri--” she froze when she looked up. It was not, as she had assumed, a Hope student. It wasn’t one of the main cast, either. Another Thespian stood before her, arms folded. Scribe hastily tucked her quill behind her ear, wincing under her mask when she felt an all-too familiar trickle against her temple.

“I, uh...What can I do for you?” the Scribe asked, debating between sounding authoritative or approachable. In the end she wound up sounding uncertain and standoffish. 

“You’re the one in charge of the stories now, right?” the Thespian asked. 

Scribe tried to figure out what role the Thespian was. Her mask was wood, or painted to look exactly like it and branches sprouted off of it on either side. She was dressed in browns and greens and on her wrists were woven wreath-like bracelets. The cane she supported herself with was wooden, unpolished and still had leaves sticking out of it, like someone had just handed her a branch and sent her on her way.

“Are you a _Tree_?” Scribe asked.

The Thespian feigned an exaggerated gasp. “Very astute. Guess we’ve got to hand it to the tailors, they sure know how to make a Tree look like a tree!” The Thespian ran her hand through her thinning silver hair. “I’m the Maple. Whenever a performance calls for a talking tree, I’m your gal.”

“I wasn’t aware we still had any Trees running around.” the Scribe muttered. “I mean, if we need a tree we can just _make_ one. As a prop. Not too hard to make those talk, either.”

“Yes, the Narrator didn’t have much use for talking trees when his plays started getting more serious.” the Maple scoffed. “And yet we’re still here, plodding around in the background, waiting to be called on.”

The Scribe put her elbows on the desk and leaned her head against her palm. “Is that why you’re here? You want me to write you and your fellow trees into a play? I can probably make that happen, just give me a few--”

“I don’t want a part. Not as the Maple, anyway. I was coming to ask if you would give me a new Role.”

Scribe had to catch herself before she faceplanted on her desk. “A new _Role?_ You want a new Role? But...but you’re an old lady! You’ve had this Role all your life! And besides, I’m just writing plays, I’m not in the business of handing out new Roles just yet!”

“I don’t want to die as a tree; would you?” the Maple snapped. “I don’t care how minor it is, I just want a new Role. Villager or Bystander or even Old Woman would be fine, _anything_ but a dratted tree!”

“You can’t just decide you don’t want your Role anymore! A Role is your identity, your purpose your, like... _Role!”_ Scribe spat. “You get what you get and you play your part. We all do.”

“Unless the Narrator said otherwise.” Maple reminded her. “He didn’t have qualms about shaking things up if they bothered him. But now you make the stories, _you_ choose the cast.”

Scribe slipped a hand under her mask just to drag it down her face, to feel the fingers stretch her skin. The Maple was right, of course, but this was too big of a step too fast. Changing a Role wasn’t something to be taken lightly. It was your identity to the world.

“Maple, why do you want a new Role at your age? I’d understand if you were a kid or even a middle-aged woman, but your wrinkles have got wrinkles, pardon me for saying so. This is like, insanely drastic, why _now?_ ”

“I told you,I don’t want to die a tree! Hell, I don’t want to _live_ as a tree either!” Maple said. Her shoulders relaxed and her arms uncrossed a little. “I’ve never liked this Role. Sure, I’m good at it and it’s been mine most of my life, but it’s never fit me. I didn’t dare complain, though. Bad things happen to those who raise their voice to the Narrator. With him gone, however, I figure it can’t hurt to try with the new guy.”

The Scribe groaned and ran her fingers through her hair. When she glanced at her hand she realized she’d stroked the side that had her inky quill tucked behind her ear and there was now black ink all over her hand, and also her hair.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaah!” she screamed, frustrated and irritated and now needing to wash her hair. “Look, I’m not going to make any promises. I don’t know how well any of my changes are going to stick. But I’ll give it some thought, try to think of a good Role for you given your...qualifications, and then maybe, _maybe_ I’ll have something for you.”

Maple nodded. “Alright, I’ll be out of your hair...unlike that ink.”

Snickering, Maple turned and marched out of the castle. She glanced back to salute the Scribe at the door before closing it behind her. Scribe seethed.

“What a demanding and bold old bat! Write a new Role for her? With a new mask and costume and everything, not to mention all the work of character development, _and at her age, too!”_

There was weight on her lap, and she looked down to find at least four masked faces peering up at her. She scowled at them, but they kept up the stare. She increased the glare, but their impassive look took its toll and she broke. As she turned away with a scoff she heard a chorus of giggles.

“Fine, you won that one. I get it. I’m the one calling the shots.Making a new Role is a lot more than I bargained for right off the bat, but...I’ll try. I guess. If I have to.”

The weight increased and a blanket enveloped her. The largest of the heads snatched her mask away and before she could protest she was subdued by a barrage of kisses from all sides. 

“Veilious--ACK! Veil! Get off! Stoooooop!” Scribe shouted, but her shouts soon turned into delighted laughter. 

She managed to free her arms from the blanket cocoon, scrambling for the safety of her desk. With a huge effort she pulled herself to her feet, letting Veilious slide to the floor. As she made her way to her washbasin Veilious skittered alongside her.

“First a wash, then we brainstorm. I think I’ll take my writing outside; a change of scenery may help things out.”

Veilious purred, though one head belched and coughed up a wad of soggy paper. Scribe smirked and tickled them under the blanket.

“But first you’ve got to give me back my mask!”

* * *

“I’ve got to admit, I was surprised you asked me back here instead of me having to come back to hound you.”

Scribe straightened out her wrap and scratched under her the shackle around her neck. “Yes, well I’m taking this challenge seriously and I want to match you to a new Role as well as I can. Now, tell me about yourself, Maple. What sort of character do you have?”

Maple leaned back into the ragged yet comfortable chair Scribe had ushered her into. She tapped her foot and hummed as she considered the question.

“If I had to describe myself in one word, I guess that word would be ‘gentle.’” Maple said in a voice that dripped with piety and humility. “I’d never harm a soul. Don’t bother anyone. That’s probably why I was chosen to be a tree in the first place.”

Scribe gave her a look that managed incredulity even behind a mask. “Uhh...right. Gentle Maple. Gentle, undemanding Maple who doesn’t trot up to the playwright herself and demand she get a better Role. Yeah, I can totally buy that if I just forget about the last time you were here!”

Maple cackled. “Can’t take a joke? Fine. I’m a mean old biddy and I like things to go my way. I’ve lived this long so I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, not even my family. I’m polite when I feel like it or if I just so happen to like you. I don’t tolerate nonsense, and I’m set in my ways. If I come upon an obstacle in my path I’ll either push my way through it or glare at it until it moves out of my way.I’m not very strong but my boys learned long ago that my tongue is all the weapon I’ll ever need. Also, I’m a bit of a fibber. I twist the truth around if I think it would worry people.”

“Well. That was...a lot. Though the information it gives me is pretty redundant in places. ‘Mean old lady’ is a pretty shallow description.Most audiences would assume all the other stuff just by hearing that alone...maybe not the lying part.

“Look, we’re talking about your Role here! Your identity! I need something meaty, something you from the very depths of your soul!” Scribe took up her quill and tapped it idly in the margins. “I know it sounds prying, but it’s not like I’m asking for your face or your name; I just need to know the more subtle and nuanced parts of your personality kept hidden by your abrasive outer shell!”

“What if I really am just a bitter old bag of bones through and through?” Maple asked, a mischievous twinkle in the amber eyes of her mask.

The Scribe folded her arms and gave her a calculating look. “No one is that shallow or one-note. Even if the surface is all you see, there’s a lifetime of events and decisions that lead up to that point. I need to know at least some of it so I can make a good fit for you.”

Maple laughed once, a hearty “Ha!” that rang through the castle room. “So you need to go poking into my business, eh? I guess you have the right.”

Scribe waited for her to go on. It soon became apparent that Maple wasn’t about to when she settled deeper into her seat and began to snore. Understandably, Scribe snapped. 

“HEY! Don’t fall asleep on me you old prune! We’re doing this for you, remember?”

“Right, right…” yawned Maple. “Sorry about that. ...What was it that you needed again?”

“A more accurate description of your background and personality.” Scribe said through clenched teeth. “Beyond _‘I’m an old lady and I’m cranky and I want everything to go my way!’_ ”

“Yes, now I remember. I fade out sometimes, you know how it is with us old folks.” Maple stretched and scratched before slowly getting to her feet. “Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go!”

“Go? Bu-- _where are we going?_ ” sputtered Scribe, hastily grabbing her things. “This is just an interview, you can sit back down!”

“But you need to see the inside of my life or whatever.” Maple said, trundling on with a stooped shuffle that Scribe just couldn’t believe wasn’t put on for show. “We really ought to see my house for that. After all, you get a good idea of a person when you see the space that’s theirs.”

Scribe dropped her ink bottle several times before Veillious picked it up for her, tilting some of its masks one way and the others another. She sighed. 

“You don’t mind if Veilious comes along? I know they’re a Stagehand and most Thespians don’t trust them, but they’re actually very sweet and a huge help to me...when they want to be, that is.”

Maple shrugged. “A Stagehand wished me good morning a few days ago, and another ate the majority of the snail infestation in my garden. Whatever they were in the past, the Narrator’s leaving has let them be something else. The only reason I haven’t taken one in just out of curiosity’s sake is because I’m too old to keep up with ‘em!”

Scribe handed over everything she needed to take to Veilious, as well as a few toys and snacks in case they got antsy. Together they followed Maple at her doddering pace, Scribe trying to keep her patience with both the old woman and with Veilious who had decided that since walking was taking so long that running circles around everyone and wandering off was more fun. Just when she thought she was going to snap, Maple’s laughter caught her off guard.

“My, they’re having fun, aren’t they? They give you quite a fright, all those masks and shadows, but then you see them like this and you realize they’re just like kids.”

“Um...sure.” Scribe muttered. She didn’t know what else to do. What she did realize rather suddenly was that they appeared to be walking far away from the stage she knew so well. 

Noticing her frantic glances around, Maple clicked her tongue. “You haven’t been Backstage in a while, have you?”

“Not since...no, I haven’t been here for a long time.” Scribe said, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat. 

It hadn’t changed all that much. Since the Damsel’s sacrifice, most of the Narrator’s wrath and attention had been in the foreground, on the Hero and the main players. Seldom did he look Backstage for talent or fodder anymore. It was dark here. Lanterns shone over doorways and in the hands of Thespians shuffling around, but these were all carefully placed so that it did not distract from the Stage. Here was where the majority of the population lived and worked. Here was where the makeup artists and tailors emerged from to spruce up actors between performances. Here was where the background characters disappeared off to when no longer needed. Here was where most of the main cast had been born.

Without warning Scribe was buckled over, wrapped up tightly around the arms and chest by a nervous Veilious.She staggered around, trying to keep her balance. “Veil--Damn it, Veilious, calm down!”

A wooden cane rapped against her mask, not enough to hurt but enough to get her attention. “This is the Backstage, playwright.” Maple said in a hoarse whisper. “Even though there’s no performance on, you’d better keep what you say very _quiet._ People are still pretty twitchy about you.”

“About _me_?” Scribe hissed as she wriggled her arms free from Veilious’ grip. “I stood against the Narrator! I helped to drive him off by allying with Veilious and freeing the last of his Stagehands!”

“You’re also sitting in the old boss’s chair.” Maple reminded her. “No one’s even sure you can wield the same power as the Narrator and if you can, then what? Do we wind up back where we started? Worse? No one has seen you at work, and so no one has faith in you.”

Scribe managed to gather up Veilious into her arms and trotted up to Maple, scowling. “You came to me. You asked me to recast your Role!”

“I’m old. What have I got to lose? If this thing falls in on my head and mine alone, so be it.” Maple said. Scribe could practically hear the grin in her voice.

When they reached a house dimly lit by ghostly blue lanterns with a scruffy looking garden, Maple took them to the door, opening it with a little brass key. She stepped aside and motioned with her cane, allowing Scribe and Veilious entry first.

Sketches papered the walls, some framed and others merely hung up by any means necessary, from nails to stakes to all sorts of tape.Scribe nearly got dizzy from turning around to see them all. There were faces, masked and unmasked, and whole bodies too. There were trees, flowers, animals, and still lifes of household items. There were even some of kith, of Eludances, Castwicks, Mawnites and Veilious, though only in their first forms.

Just when she thought she’d seen it all, Scribe looked up and saw the starlit sky, painted on the ceiling with glowing paint. She nearly dropped Veilious as she stumbled backwards, catching herself on the wall behind her. She regained her composure when Maple started to giggle.

“Most people only put a few sketches on the wall and keep the rest in a book somewhere.” she muttered as she set Veilious on the floor.

“Our family’s not most people. We put everything we make up on the wall. Of course, most of these are my son’s.”

“He drew these unmasked faces and you hung them on the wall? In your house? Where your guests could see?”

Maple shook her head. “I never have guests. This space is _mine._ I share it with whoever I want to share it with, and mostly that’s my family. Besides, these are faces we see every day anyway.”

Maple ushered her into a small parlor and Veilious followed, producing the quill, ink and portable desk from under their blanket as soon as she was seated in a creaky old wooden chair. Scribe stared at the ceiling here, again painted with stars, some larger with beautiful thin-lined designs painted in them and others merely a pinhead of paint on a background that shifted from blues and blacks to purples and pinks. Maple hobbled into the kitchen and returned with a platter of cookies.

“Did one of your sons paint the ceiling as well?” Scribe asked, taking a cookie from the platter and offering it to Veilious.

Maple took a seat opposite from the Scribe, getting cozy before glancing up. “That? Oh no. That was me. I painted in my spare time, which I got a lot of. Helped with the odd set or prop long ago, back before my arthritis kicked in.”

“It’s...actually pretty impressive.” Scribe admitted reluctantly. 

“So, getting a better picture yet?” Maple asked.

Scribe glanced around as though she hadn’t already a dozen times. It was a lot to take in. “I think so. Clearly your family has a unique way of decorating.”

“Is that useful to recasting me?”

“Maybe.” Scribe uncorked the ink bottle and scribbled down notes, hastily jotting down a description of the place as complete as she could make it. The floors were wooden, though rugs were thrown here and there without rhyme or reason. Besides the numerous drawings there were a few clocks and a single wall bare of anything but masks. These were probably the departed in the family. Scribe tried not to look at the few very small ones for too long.

The furniture was very worn, barely held together by the slipshod repairs made to them over the years and yet still holding. Despite the ridiculous amount of things in the house, it was remarkably clean. There wasn’t a cobweb in sight, nor any sign of dirt on the floor despite the tattered rugs and warped wood. There was also a lot of care taken to keep everything at least three feet off the ground, as there was nothing below that point on the walls and all of the furniture was taller. The one exception was a bookshelf, which had a small collection of children’s literature on the bottom shelves.

“I think I am getting a clearer picture, actually.” the Scribe said, smirking down at her notes. “This may be enough to go on. Unless you have anything else you think I ought to see. I really need to be getting back to work--”

A door at the rear of the house slammed open and little footsteps thundered in. Scribe turned in her chair and Veilious sat up to see a little girl run in, her mask in her hands and a huge smile on her face. 

“Gramma, Gramma! I heard voices so I knew you were ho--” The purple-skinned Thespian girl suddenly realized that the other person in the room was a Stranger. She looked down at the mask in her hands and went pale. 

The Scribe made a show of covering her eyes so that the child could get her mask on, only lowering her hands when Maple said “Alright, girlie, there you go.”

When she saw the girl again, she was standing by Maple’s chair with a fairly plain mask on, depicting a smiling, rosy-cheeked face. A typical Child’s mask, a role that was a work in progress. Most Thespians started here, but there were always exceptions.

The girl stared at her. Scribe stared back. Veilious stared at the both of them. The girl stared at Veilious, taking a step back when she saw they were watching her too. It occurred to Scribe that she had no idea how to address children this young.

“Gramma, there’s a Stagehand in here.” the little girl said, wringing her little hands.

Maple reached out and squeezed her hands. “It’s alright. They’re Grammy’s guests, hmm? So Grammy knows what she’s doing. They won’t hurt you, dear.”

This seemed to calm the girl down, and she cautiously edged forward. At her grandmother’s whispered suggestion, she took a candy from Maple’s hand and offered it to Veilious. Several of Veilious’ masked heads tried to grab the candy at once, when a larger one took it and then crunched it into pieces with their mouth, sharing it among the heads peacefully. The little girl thought this was splendid, judging by how she jumped and clapped her hands gleefuly. 

“They’re called Veilious.” Scribe explained, “They’re a lot of minds sharing one body. Sometimes they argue, but they can work together too.”

The little girl nodded, looking away from Scribe bashfully before rushing over to her grandmother to whisper not-at-all quietly, “Gramma, she has a pretty mask!”

“She does.”

“And pretty jewelry!”

“Maybe you should tell her that.”

“No!” the girl squeaked, burying her face in Maple’s skirt. Scribe felt her ears get hot just before the sound of a much larger person stepping on the creaky floors caught her attention. A tall, stocky man stepped in wearing the mask of a mask maker, which was to say a very basic mask with ink and paint splattered on it and no other decoration--in fact, it was likely that the ink and paint were merely stains from the job.

He froze when he saw the kith and he stiffened when he saw the Scribe. He stepped in front of the child and glared at her. 

“Mom, what is _she_ doing here?”

“She invited me over!” snapped the Scribe, unable to stop herself.

“I invited her over.” Maple said far more calmly. “She’s helping me out with something personal.”

“She worked for _him!_ She lives in his house!” the Maskmaker roared, causing the child behind him to cower. “She writes the scripts now and you invited her into your house? We’ve been living just fine in the background without too much notice, and you--”

“I know what I am doing.” Maple said, suddenly firm. “The Scribe is different. More like the Narrator was long ago, before he lost his way. Only, this time I think we have someone who will narrate the stories and not forget that we’re people, not merely puppets on a stage to possess and discard.

“Or have I read you completely wrong?” Maple asked, leaning over to look at Scribe. 

The Scribe’s spine wanted to crumple like a slinky but her stung pride buoyed her chest up like a balloon. She was glad to be wearing a mask because her expression right now was surely a very confused one. “There’s nothing wrong with a sad ending, but this stage has had its fill of tragedy right now. I’m trying to give the Stage time to heal and still keep Curtain Fall back. I don’t make any promises, but I’m going to give it my best.”

“Yes, she doesn’t like making promises either. She needs a bit of confidence in her work, but I have confidence in her.” Maple said, easing back into her chair.

“She let me give candy to the Stagehand, Daddy.” the little girl said, tugging on her father’s pants. 

The Maskmaker glared at Veilious too with just as much venom and mistrust, but said nothing, instead scooping his daughter up and putting her on his shoulders.

“I’d like to have a word with you later, Mom.” he said as he turned away.

“Yes, I think we ought to have a talk too.” Maple agreed. “Goodbye, Maskmaker.”

“Veil and I should probably get back too.” Scribe said, scrambling to her feet and suddenly eager to be back in the castle. “It was nice to meet your son and granddaughter, but if I’m going to make a new Role in the next decade I really need to be getting back to work.” 

Maple waved lazily from her chair. “Fine, go on! I needed a nap anyways. No slacking off just because I’m not there breathing down your neck!”

“Yeah...bye.” Scribe said, handing Veilious the equipment again and leaving through the sketch-filled hallway. These were almost certainly the work of Maskmaker, though on second glance there were more ameteur pictures among them done in children’s scribblings or merely unpracticed scrawls.

Before shutting the door Scribe took one last look at the ceiling. It really was beautifully done. Veilious took this opportunity to climb up her back and forced her to carry them piggyback all the way home.

* * *

“Thank you so much for your help, Traveler! This will be perfect reference material.” Scribe said, hugging the book to her chest. She searched the shelves before finding a book more or less the same in value and handed this to the Hope student. 

“Here, a token of my thanks.”

“Thanks, Scribe!” the student replied, “But I’ve got to ask. You’re a writer. How does a book about _drawing naked people_ help you?”

 _“I don’t need to answer to you!”_ Scribe snapped, her cheeks flushing. “Er, besides it’s a...work in progress…”

The student ran off giggling, and scribe threw a book after them which slammed on the floor and was immediately pounced by Veilious.They returned it to Scribe moments later, damp and rather mangled.

Scribe sighed and set the book aside before filing her new reference book away for later. She picked up the script she had been working on and took a seat by the window, looking outside for inspiration or to give her mind a short break now and then. It was there that she saw the now-familiar shape hobbling up the path to the castle. She set her work aside and met Maple at the door.

“Maple! Good to see you!” she said eagerly, ushering the old woman inside. “I think I have the Role for you! I’m even trying to brainstorm a plot, just something short and sweet that won’t be too hard on a woman of your age that will still establish that role as yours!”

Maple’s ears perked up, and she was probably beaming under that wooden mask. “That’s good to hear, Scribe, because I was just coming up to talk to you about that.” She was breathless and a little wheezy, likely from making the long trip over. “Before I get into it, tell me about the Role.”

Scribe did. Maple seemed surprised, but pleasantly so. She listened to Scribe’s ideas patiently, nodding along and saying nothing. When she was finished, Maple looked down at her cane.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this. I’m touched. I honestly wasn’t sure how far this would get. Thank you, Scribe.”

“Ah, don’t get too mushy on me, old lady.” Scribe teased. “It was inevitable with me taking the big guy’s job that I’d have to do things like this someday. Now I know a little bit more about what I’m doing. Anyway, you said you needed to talk, and you’ve walked a long way. What do you need to talk about?”

“About a performance. I’ll need to be in one to truly claim this Role, like you said. I don’t know how the whole thing should go, but the ending is important.” Maple stared out the window, her hands folding on her lap. “I would appreciate it if you would Narrate a good death for me.”

Time stopped. The world went still. At least, it did around the Scribe in that moment, who was suddenly as dizzy and nauseous as though she had jumped of the high dive of a swimming pool in a spin. “You want me...to kill you off?” she asked, clawing back to sense.

“Goodness, no!” Maple said, her laugh brittle and hollow. “No, I want you to write my death. It’s coming for me as sure as anything, so I may as well have it planned out by someone I can trust.”

Scribe rubbed her temples. “I don’t even know if my Narration would have that kind of power...I mean, we’ve done little scenes already, but nothing like this!”

“It couldn’t hurt to try...at worst, this will be a performance I walk away from, right?”

“Why do you want me to write this all of the sudden?” Scribe moaned. “I mean, I know you’re old but you could have months, years still! Why not think about it then?”

“Because I don’t have years and I may not have months.” Maple said plainly. Without warning she took off her mask, setting it upon her lap and staring at Scribe with her true face for the first time.

Her skin was a pale blue, even paler than Dollmaker’s, and her hair was thin and silver. She definitely wasn’t older than the Wolf, but something was sapping her vitality, making her far more wrinkled and gaunt than she ought to be at her age. Her eyes were sunken in but still fiery, both in the spirit they held and in color. She smiled wanly, and though Scribe was no doctor she saw the weariness and sickness in her face.

“It’s hard enough knowing that your End is nearing and that you’ve got to leave your family behind. I was hoping to have one less thing to worry about by coming to you and requesting a last hurrah.” Maple replaced her mask, sighing once it was adjusted correctly. “I don’t want a play about my dying, I just want to leave after giving my absolute all to my farewell performance.”

Scribe drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair irritably. With a jerk she scrawled something hastily on a piece of paper and handed it over to Maple. “Give that to the tailors and mask makers. They should be able to come up with a design with this description. As for the play...give me some time.”

“...But you make no promises?” Maple guessed in an amused tone. 

Scribe said nothing. Maple slowly rose out of her chair, gave Veilious a pat on every one of the heads that extended to meet her wizened hand, and shuffled away. Scribe watched her go, her fidgeting only getting worse by the second.

“No more sad endings... _I said no more sad endings, damn it!”_

Veilious whined but Scribe was already in a tailspin. What was just irritable fidgeting became agitated pacing, then hair pulling. All the while she murmured under her breath, a steady stream of curses interspersed with _“I can’t do this!”_

She was suddenly jerked back, caught by her sash by dozens of mouths and shadowy hands. Without a word she fell over them with open arms and held them until she could stop shaking. Finally grounded, she pulled back and let them curl up around her.

“Let’s get out of this castle, what do you say?” she said feebly. “I don’t think I can stand to be in here right now.”

Outside the castle with Veilious in tow she walked towards light. She heeded no other landmark, traveling from lantern to lantern and not saying a word. Sometimes she’d stoop and pick up a stick and throw it for Veilious to chase, or pause to watch a drifting spirit pass by on its merry (or not-so-merry) way. She did turn away from the bright orange glow of the Hero’s campfire, not in the mood to deal with that sort of energy right now. This took her on a path surrounded by little candles and standing stones, with incense food and small totems of remembrance placed upon little altars on each. Too late she realized this was the Graveyard. Reminders of death were _everywhere,_ this was the last place she needed to be.

She spun on her heel and tried to run, but tripped over Veilious and fell flat on her face. A gloved hand took hers and pulled her up. She didn’t need to look up to know who the tall, somber person now dusting her off was.

“Scribe, it’s a pleasure.” Dollmaker said in his gentle yet resonant voice. “Have you come to pay your respects? The departed darlings are happy for any company they get.”

“I came to forget about death, actually, so I should really be leaving!” Scribe snapped, batting his hand away and stepping over Veilious. 

Dollmaker clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head sagely. “Forgetting about death is never healthy. We should never fear it, for it is merely what marks the end of the story that was our lives. But surely you’d have no reason to fear facing it in the first place, would you not? I trust you are well and that there are no threats immediately looming.”

Scribe tried to leave, but Veilious scurried forward and blocked her way. They stared her down, drawing up to impressive height by standing on one another. Scowling, she turned to face Dollmaker again.

“I guess Veil won’t let me leave unless I tell you. I’ve been working with a minor player called the Maple lately. At first she wanted a new Role, so I figured one out for her. Then when I tell her what it is, she thanks me and asks me for a little favor... _that I write her death._ ”

Dollmaker was silent for a moment, nodding. “Yes, I understand. I can see how that would be a daunting request. Is that all?”

“What do you mean _‘Is that all’?_ The Role thing was bad enough, but now she wants me to show the minor characters that they can trust me by killing her in front of them!” Scribe shouted. “I don’t even know if my Narration could grant her the peaceful exit she’s wanting, and what about her family? They already think I’m bad news!”

“You met her family?”

The Scribe slumped against a tombstone, not considering how this would make Dollmaker or the occupant of the grave feel. “Yes, two of them anyway, a son and a granddaughter. These aren’t even Chorus Line or Ensemble roles, they’re just honest, hardworking folks who are content to stay Backstage. How can she put them through this? How does she expect _me_ to do this? To just...use the Narrative to take another Thespian’s life?”

Dollmaker knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “I know many of the Backstage families. Maple is one of them. We have had many conversations as of late. She has been sick for a very long time. She is ready as any soul can be, I think, to face her mortality. She didn’t take this lightly, I’m sure. She cannot prevent her death any more than you can. She only hopes to have a death that will bring peace not only to her, but to her family as well. It is sad, but partings always are.She will never truly be gone, however, so long as those who are left behind keep her in their hearts.”

“That’s all well and good,” Scribe said with a derisive laugh, “but what about me? How do you think I feel about ending a Thespian’s life with my words? If I do have that power, if my Narrative _is_ that strong, what does that make me? And if I don’t, then we’re in even more trouble because we’ll have no way to stop Curtain Fall if it starts to come upon us suddenly!”

“I didn't mean to diminish your feelings in this, Scribe.” Dollmaker apologized. “I cannot imagine being asked to do what you have been, especially with recent events still so fresh in our minds. It is not an easy mantle to bear, the Role you’ve taken. While I have no doubt that you are better suited to the task in temperament alone, the fact remains that you are responsible for the players upon this stage now. If there’s even a chance that you can give their characters the development they seek they will place themselves under your direction.

“I know you think that the death of Maple will be a sad event, largely because it will be.” Dollmaker continued. “Her family and friends and all those she has influenced will feel her absence like a hole in their hearts. That is unavoidable. But it will give them peace and joy beneath the pain that she was granted her exit with care, dignity and compassion. Maple will die, whether you Narrate it or not. What you can do is guide the Reaper’s hand, giving Maple--or whatever her new Role will be--the chance to give her goodbyes.”

Scribe pulled away from Dollmaker and buried her face in her hands. She became aware that a blanket was being clumsily draped over her by many little paws. She looked like a sad wraith, covered in a black blanket and surrounded by masks and ghostly flames. It was too much, too heavy. 

Why did she think that she knew what she was doing? The Narrator had become careless, vindictive and power-hungry in the end, but he knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t have listened to a Thespian who demanded a new Role, he wouldn’t have entertained the idea for a single second! He certainly wouldn’t have given them what they wanted and then write a play for that Thespian to their specifications. The actor’s place was to listen to the Narrator, not to make demands.

But she was not the Narrator. She didn’t lord over the Thespians. They were her peers, her people. They were more than characters on a script to her. As the playwright, author, director....as the _narrator_ , she owed it to the Roles in her cast to see that their characters were brought to a satisfactory conclusion in the end. Not necessarily their End, as with Maple, but an end.

She felt something squeeze her leg. She looked down and saw a gray Eludance hugging her as tightly as he could. Dollmaker gently pried him off and scooped him up, bouncing him a few times with some difficulty as the second-stage kith had added some stone and metal parts to himself after being freed.

“Darling Eludance thought you needed a hug. I’m sorry if he intruded on your personal moment.” Dollmaker apologized.

The Scribe carefully shrugged off the blanket and stroked Veilious in silent thanks. “It didn’t bother me too much. Thank you for listening to me gripe. I think I’m ready to get back to work now.”

Scribe walked as though weighted down back to the castle, Veilious trailing after. They did not scamper off or try to cause trouble, sensing their Ally needed them near. Back in the castle Scribe walked straight to her desk, took a deep breath, then started writing furiously. Veilious peered over the desktop to watch her in silence. Scribe did not move from that spot until she’d placed the final period on the last page of the script, then promptly fell asleep in her seat.

* * *

Performance day came, all too soon. She’d handed out the scripts months ago, of course, and everyone had been practicing their lines and stage directions regularly in preparation. Maple had been stripped of her former role and now wore the garb of her new one, but it wouldn’t be official until showtime.

The Scribe stood on the balcony of one of the castle’s high towers, a megaphone affixed to a stand before her and the script in her hands.Her mouth was dry. She’d been rehearsing this too, but now she was getting stage fright. Her Role had never been so integral, in fact it was largely a background one. She went on ghostwriting scripts as the Hero had never come close to storming the castle until the Rewrite. She was a bit out of practice.

This was not her spotlight, however. This night, this play belonged to someone else. She was just there to see that the story went according to plan.Palms sweating and head light, she leaned forward and spoke into the megaphone.

“Are you all in your places?”

A chorus of distant affirmations greeted her. She dried off her hands and cleared her throat. She lifted the script to eye level, licking her lips in preparation for the Narration.

“Showtime.” she whispered.

_Nighttime upon the stage and all is quiet. A humble Maskmaker brings his family into the clearing in the forest to enjoy the night sky and to celebrate the stars. The stars have guided them well for many years, especially the brightest one. Its light has led them safely home through the treacherous parts of the forest, portended ill events by veiling its light and heralded good fortune by growing brighter. Because of this the family has made a tradition of throwing grand parties in the forest and lighting incense and lanterns in honor of their guiding star, raising their voices to sing her praises._

Minor players and house workers though they were, they needed no prompting to enjoy the party setting set up for them in the forest. The Wolf had been encouraged to visit the Witch so there was nothing for them to fear. 

So far, so good. Still, exposition couldn’t go on forever. You couldn’t stall by setting the scene up until your audience lost interest. It was time to make things happen, time for tonight’s leading lady to make her entrance.

_The Star looks down upon the family, so happy and so grateful to her. She longs to be among them, to join them in their fun. On this night she can stand it no longer, and floating down from the heavens the Star finally gets her wish, landing just outside their little circle._

The Thespian formerly known as Maple was lowered from the rafters, sitting upon a platform made to look like the tail of a shooting star. She was the body, her new costume made in gold and white and her mask now covered in gold leaf and modeled to have rays of light crowning her head.Instead of her wooden cane, she held a golden scepter that she gleefully told everyone was “good for whopping” when she received it.

It took some effort on her part, but she was able to get the straps off of herself and hop down off the platform, hobbling over to join the rest of the cast after taking a moment to catch her breath.

“Lovely party you’ve all made!” Even from this distance Scribe could hear the Star deliver her line. “I hope you don’t mind, but I just had to come over myself to see this up close!”

Scribe allowed the scene to play out a bit, even when the players went a bit off-script. She added a few lines here and there to prod the narrative back toward the story if it began to stray, but for the most part just watched, glancing occasionally to the script as though she didn’t know every word on it a dozen times over.

The night wore on, and under Scribe’s direction they went through several party activities such as dancing, games and a bonfire. It was odd to control a party like this, but the actors seemed to be enjoying themselves. Still, it had to end. Scribe noticed that Star was beginning to tire. 

_As the night wore on, the Star began to weaken._

The cast below grew quiet, staring at the Star who gave them a friendly wave and motioned for them to carry on. They did, albeit reluctantly. They weren’t the only ones.

 _Her love for the people pulled her from the sky, but in doing so she gave up lifespan of a star. As the Moon sets, she grows more tired, yet she has no regrets._ _The party continues on as normal, with the guests not realizing that they were spending their last night with their beloved Star._

The cast resumed their act, interacting with the Star sometimes to offer her a drink or tell her jokes, but not overwhelming her. The Star put up with it all gracefully, going out of her way to do things with her granddaughter and sitting on a convenient log when even that grew tiring. Scribe felt a knot in her gut when she saw the Star place a hand on her chest. There wasn’t much time.

_The Star’s glow fades. It becomes clear to the partygoers what is happening now. This distresses them at first, but the Star reassures them._

“This is what I chose.” the Star said, holding her sniffling granddaughter close. “A little time with you is worth far more than eons alone in the heavens. Here I can feel your love, even if only for a short time longer, so give me your love while I am still yet here and hold me in your hearts always. I may never shine above you again, but I swear to you my light will always be with you, sustained in your hearts by your memory of me.”

The cast was starting to weep, but Scribe couldn’t let them dissolve just yet. She had to stay strong for the Star, for the whole _Stage_.

 _The loved ones the Star held so dear now gather around her, holding each other and holding her, telling her how much she meant to them and swearing never to forget her. The humble Maskmaker allows her to lean against him as her eyelids become heavy. Surrounded by those she most loved, the Star falls asleep.._ _.and a few moments later, her light goes out._

The Scribe paused, watching the scene below. The Maskmaker held his mother’s body, but the Scribe couldn’t tell if she was gone. She got her answer when the little girl began to sob and the Maskmaker uttered the fateful words to the gathered cast.

“She’s gone.”

The Scribe wanted to run away, bury herself in work back inside the castle, try to scrub out the mental image in her mind. But the Star had gone easy, and hadn’t that been the point? And, she wasn’t quite sure, but it felt like her words were taking on a life of their own. She needed to close this scene.

_Even with their beloved Star gone, the family still feel her love and warmth. It is with sorrow that they leave the clearing, but the time spent with her comforts them and gives them the strength to live on with her memory ever in their hearts. Those who build homes for themselves in the hearts of others never truly die, even though their time upon the Stage may come to an end. A life lived for others is not wasted, however brief it seems. End scene._

Silently the Scribe took up the script and retired into the castle. There she sat on the edge of her bed, staring down at the pages for a long time. Then she got up without a word, put the script into a folder and then filed it away. She pulled out a blank parchment and began to write.

Life returned to its usual chaos. She was nearly constantly having to ask for supplies since Veilious stole or destroyed things when they were bored. Hope students pestered her since they apparently thought storming the castle meant they could come in just any old time...though driving off the Narrator did earn them that right, she supposed.

Dollmaker had tried to speak to her, but she wasn’t interested. She knew what he was going to say, and she didn’t need that. There was too much work to do, too many stories in her head.

She glanced up when she heard the door open, and froze when she saw the Maskmaker. He looked uncertain about setting foot in the castle, but stepped toward her desk anyway.

He loomed over her for a moment, prompting Veilious to sit up and glare at him suspiciously. He didn’t seem upset, however.

“You, uh...Thanks. For the play. Mom, she loved it. I could tell.”

“It’s part of my duties now.” Scribe said, finishing the line she was on before looking up again. “Are you...doing OK?”

“It’s never easy to lose someone, but she was exactly where she wanted to be and with who she wanted to be with. Can’t do much better than that, especially for a background character.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t some grand thing...she was already so weak.” Scribe muttered, mangling the quill in her hands. “If I’d had more time...been a better writer...had more experience maybe…”

Maskmaker shook his head. “It was enough. Thank you again. Even though you say it wasn’t much, it was enough for me to know I could trust you. You know, I’m very proud of that mask I made her.”

He reached into a pack he carried on his side and removed a mask, the mask his mother had worn when she first came into the castle all those months ago.

“Here. She wanted you to have this.” Maskmaker said. “We kept the fancy one, sorry.”

“She wanted me to have her old mask?” Scribe asked incredulously. 

Maskmaker nodded. “Her words were, I believe, ‘I’m going to make sure she remembers me even if I have to haunt her for the rest of time!’ She was quite impressed with you.”

The Scribe looked at the mask, at the empty amber eyes and the crumpled leaves. Memories from that first visit flooded back. She couldn’t help herself. She burst into laughter. She couldn’t stop. She laughed until tears poured from her eyes, thoroughly ruining the page she was working on. 

Once she finally gained her composure, she thanked the Maskmaker profusely and found a spot on her wall where an empty nail sat forlornly. She didn’t remember what it had been there for, but now it was the home of Maple’s mask. 

The mask watched over her fifteenth favorite writing spot in the castle.She wouldn’t often address questions about it, not unless asked by those she’d come to trust. Afterwards she’d get quiet, taking a break from writing for a while to enjoy some time with Veilious. They’d usually go to the window to watch the stars.


End file.
